


The Persistence of Memory

by RedChucks



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jones is up for anything, M/M, Sexy Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24455572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedChucks/pseuds/RedChucks
Summary: Claire is drunk, Jones and Dan are high, music is playing, but Claire doesn't recognise it, or doesn't remember.
Relationships: Claire Ashcroft/Jones, Dan Ashcroft/Jones
Comments: 11
Kudos: 13





	The Persistence of Memory

Claire walked in to the House of Jones and the ever-present wall of sound, came to an abrupt stop, and walked backwards out through the spray painted doorway, wondering if she’d managed to “do a Dan” and accidentally walk in to the wrong house while pissed. She was drunker than she liked to be but surely she hadn’t reached that level of Ashcroft fucked-upness just yet. Sure, her eyes were a little fuzzy as she squinted at the house in front of her, and yeah, she was listing to the left a little as she walked, but she wasn’t that far gone. And it definitely still looked like the House of Jones. 

Her current level of inebriation was the result of a night spent trying to drown out Barley’s inane drivel whilst still pretending that she thought he was the trend setter he believed himself to be. It seemed a ridiculous price to pay just so that she could carry on using his editing equipment for her latest project but Claire was very aware that her pride was being worn down along with her self-worth the longer she lived among the Idiots of Shoreditch. Nathan’d tried to get in to her pants again, like he always did, and she’d had almost enough cheap vodka shots to let it happen - until she’d realised that Ned was filming Nathan’s greasy chat-up attempts, and braying like an ass right beside her. 

She’d legged it home after that, almost looking forward to the soul-crushing sound of Jones’ rubbish decks after nothing but silence and the huffed sound of her own frigid breath in the icy night. Frigid. Someone had yelled that at her after she pushed Barley off and made a run for it, and even though she knew it was stupid the insult still stung, just as it always did. And right then she just wanted to be home where no one could bother her about any of that nonsense. Neither Dan or Jones ever seemed to successfully get off with anyone, which made her feel a whole lot better about her lack of a love life, and neither of them ever had a go at her over it either. They didn’t have a go at her over anything, not her love life, or failing career, or general lack of achievements in life - it was comforting in its way. And even if going home meant dealing with Jones’ noise, it was better than being alone with her thoughts and the sound of her own heavy breathing. 

With a loud huff Claire looked up at the house in front of her again. Sure it looked like her home, but it sure as hell didn’t sound like it. Trying to correct her body’s insistent need to lean to the left she glared up at the house as if daring it to try and get away with such a ludicrous lie, but it refused to ‘fess up, which just made Claire more confused and therefore much, much angrier. Because it definitely looked like the House of Jones; there was obnoxious graffiti covering the walls and overflowing bins cluttering up the path out front, and the music spilling out through the open doorway was definitely the right volume for the House of Jones, which was to say loud enough to cause the concrete to vibrate ever so slightly. But it was the wrong sort of music, and Claire struggled to describe it as she walked inside for a second time, focusing her mind as much as the vodka in her veins would allow, trying to find the right word for what she was hearing.

Beautiful.

Beautiful was the right word, she realised, as she closed the door behind her. The music flowing out from the depths of the scuffed and out-dated speakers was beautiful, pure and simple. She struggled to identify it beyond that, her brain providing her with words like, ‘symphony’ and ‘strings’ but not much else, whilst her heart began to ache with a maelstrom of emotions that she had no desire to feel. Not one bit. It made her heart ache like she was grieving or in love, or both. Claire didn’t want to feel any of that. She didn’t want to feel anything anymore; feeling things just led to disappointment and embarrassment and grief.

She’d started to list to the left again as she made it to the living room, searching for whoever had managed to pry Jones away from his decks long enough to put on such amazing music. It definitely couldn’t be Jones, and wasn’t likely to be Dan. It was more likely that they’d been murdered by a classical music loving cannibal and that she was about to walk in to a truly gruesome sight. She felt around for her phone, because that was the sort of video that could make her career, but her pockets were empty, which was a shame, so she wobbled forward to investigate.

Sliding around the doorway, relying almost entirely on the wall now to keep upright, Claire prepared herself for whatever madness she was about to discover, searching again for her phone just in case she really did need to call 999. The music swelled like a wave as she managed to focus her eyes, which Claire couldn’t help but feel was incredibly poetic, but there was no disaster waiting for her. Instead, in the centre of the music, in a swirl of deep oranges and dark mauves and dust grays, sat Jones and Dan, side by side on the floor, backs propped up against the sagging couch, like a Raphael masterpiece, their bare chests so still that for a moment Claire thought they might actually be dead.

But then, as she watched, Jones leant gracefully across and kissed her brother with the most aching tenderness Claire had ever witnessed, whilst all around them their very own Fantasia sequence played out in the musty, weed smoke softened, air. She watched, breath becoming tight and harsh again, as Jones dragged his teeth across Dan’s bottom lip, eyes drawn to the way her brother’s hips undulated as if he too was part of the music. As her breath and heart began to race again Claire wondered why she couldn’t hear the sounds coming from her body - why she could only hear the music.

When both men finally looked up and saw her Claire expected them to startle. She expected her brother to yell, or to throw something at her or call her a perv. She expected Jones to laugh in that nervous way he sometimes did when she caught him doing something the Shoreditch masses wouldn’t consider cool, like reading romance novels in the bath. Instead they both looked up with pupils blown wide and lips swollen and parted and Claire found herself transfixed. She watched as Jones, his stupidly large eyes fixed on her’s the whole time, leaned in to kiss her brother with the sort of passion Claire had only ever seen in a handful of foreign language films and which she’d always assumed was just an act and not an actual human possibility. She’d never wanted to kiss someone like that, had never felt the need, never wanted to be kissed like that before. Until just then. It made her chest hurt on a level beyond anything the freezing air had ever managed. She felt like she was burning.

Swaying on her feet, Claire watched as Jones once again dug his teeth in to Dan’s bottom lip, causing her helpless brother to begin moving his hips with increasing need, whilst his hands ran over the smooth planes of Jones’ chest and arms with the reverence of worship and absolute devotion. But then Jones pulled away, the corners of his lips curling upwards like the tendrils of black and red hair around his cheeks and jaw, and stared her down, and Claire wasn’t sure what to say to explain her presence in the house, or why she was standing in the doorway of the living room, watching her flatmate and her brother making out to classical music.

“What is this exactly?” she said pointing vaguely at the air and the sound still filling it, feeling doubly stupid when Jones smiled at her like a cat and stretched out across Dan, who seemed to have barely registered that she was there.

“I’s music, Claire,” Jones called over the sounds of strings and woodwinds. “How pissed are you that you can’t recognise music?”

Claire watched as Jones continued to stretch. His lower half was hidden under a thin blanket but she could follow the dark trail of hair down from his belly button to where it spread out in to proper pubes just below the jut of his narrow hips. It was like an arrow begging to be followed, and Claire felt a growl building in her throat at the sight of it. She wanted it. Dan got all the luck, got everything she wanted. Claire blinked. She was too drunk for these kinds of thoughts. She was too drunk for this situation.

“Why are you playing this kind of music?” she asked bluntly as she took a step forward, stumbling slightly as the room tilted around her, the result of Jones climbing to his feet and rearranging gravity to suit himself. “Classical music?” she pushed. “With actual instruments. You don’t play actual music, Jones. You’re Jones. You don’t even know what it is.”

He laughed at that, a proper cackle with his head thrown back and his hands pressed to his chest. Claire swallowed thickly. She wanted to replace his hands with her own. Or with her tongue. She wanted a glass of water and a sit down. Neither of which seemed likely just then, because her feet didn’t seem to want to move, and because Jones had climbed to his feet and was walking towards her, naked save for a skirt slung low around his hips - a simple, cotton, knee-length skirt with a faded pattern of greens and yellows and browns.

“I know classical music, Claire,” Jones assured her with a smirk as he stepped in to her personal space, draping his arms over her shoulders like they were slow dancing, leaning in further to whisper in her ear, tickling the skin of her neck as he did so. “I know plenty, yeah? Like, I know this piece is called ‘The Persistence of Memory’ yeah? It were inspired by a Dali painting, which is well intellect. It’s like a...” He sighed against her ear, making her shiver, making her hands move forward to slide across his porcelain skin to fasten on to his smooth hips - her fingers moving like they’d done the same a million times. “It’s like a Springtime breeze against your cheeks on a perfect morning in the countryside; like the taste of honey and cream on your lover’s tongue as it dips in to your mouth. It’s...” Claire could feel his lips against her skin now, and as the music swirled and danced through her veins she began to feel more than a little light-headed; she wasn’t used to such an abundance of pleasant sensory input. It was draining and overwhelming and she was almost sure that she was actually quite drunk. “Well, it’s...”

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Jones agreed, moving closer until the hem of his skirt tickled her bare legs and made her aware of how thin her own skirt was beneath her coat. She’d only worn it because Nathan had bought it for her and she didn’t want to seem ungrateful. It was too short, and it flounced around her legs like it was determined to show off her pants and make a fool of her. Nathan had probably programmed it somehow. But she didn’t want to think about Nathan and his clammy hands and dry lips, not now. Not when there were hands pushing the coat from her shoulders, and an ivory body - firmer than she’d ever thought it might be - pressed gently against her. “Yeah,” Jones repeated, running his hands down her bare arms until his fingertips found the hem of her t-shirt and the sensitive skin of her belly. “Beautiful,” he whispered against her ear. “And perfect for fucking to when you’re high.”

Claire shivered, but didn’t get a chance to answer, or to find out where Jones’ tantalising words might be leading her. At that moment reality edged it’s way in, if only just, with the sound of Dan’s deep, alcohol slowed, voice, rumbling out from the nest of blankets by the sofa.

“Oi, Jonesy, quit that. Get back over here.” Jones turned, dragging his nose and lips across Claire’s face as he did so, breathing out a huff of laughter at whatever he saw. Claire didn’t look. She couldn’t. At some point her eyes had closed and she couldn’t open them again for the life of her.

“What?” she heard Jones ask teasingly, his fingers still tracing patterns across the flesh of her hips where her t-shirt had ridden up. “Since when do you not enjoy watching me get off with other people?”

Dan growled. Claire’d never heard him make a noise quite like that before. It was almost frightening. None of the idiots who spent their time poking him and pushing him toward the edge realised that they were dealing with an actual bear who could turn on them at any moment but Claire suddenly did. It was a moment of drunken epiphany but she promised herself she’d not forget it in the morning. Dan growled again and Claire felt a sudden spike of fear, but at the same moment Jones pressed himself closer and her body reeled in confusion, unsure what to feel when faced with the friction against her skin of the wiry hair that lead from his navel to his groin. It was too much. She wanted it.

“Not when it’s my sister, you tart,” Dan snapped, though there didn’t seem to be any real anger behind the words, not like when he was angry at anyone else. Dan never got really angry at Jones, no matter what he did, or who he did, it seemed. “You want to do that, do it in ‘nother room. On a ‘nother night. You’re supposed to be mine tonight. Now get your arse back here.”

The sudden fear that she was falling snapped Claire’s eyes open and she tried to remain steady as Jones stepped back from her. She felt stupidly grateful to him for keeping his hands in place on her hips, and stupidly drunk, and just plain stupid really. Jones was an idiot DJ who never washed his socks and cut his own hair despite working at one of the trendiest salons in town. Jones was an illiterate clothes stealer who regularly made himself sick by overdosing on caffeine. She wasn’t interested in Jones. She wasn’t, she was almost sure of it. But she was just the teensiest bit interested in hearing more about what he had to say about fucking. 

A whine escaped her lips before she could stop it when Jones moved away completely, but he looked back at her with a smirk and took her hand, walking with swaying hips toward the couch and Dan and, Claire now saw, several neatly rolled joints laid out on a cushion. Jones walked like his hips were trying to make some sort of point, Claire thought muzzily as she let herself be pulled along. They were hips that deserved a close up, hips that told a story, hips that were demanding something of the world. They were hips that looked amazing above a low slung skirt.

“That’s my skirt,” she realised just as they took their last step, watching as Dan’s hand snaked it’s way up Jones’ calf to disappear beneath the soft fabric. “I was wondering where that’d gone.”

Jones cackled and leant forward to rub his nose against hers in an eskimo kiss, teasing Claire with the closeness of his lips, so very nearly touching hers. “What you talkin’ about? You gave it me, you numpty. Don’t you remember?”

“What, when?” Her head was spinning and Jones’ head was now resting on her shoulder, his warm breath tickling her neck again and making her clit suddenly ache for him to just do something, even as the rest of her body begged to just be allowed to lie down and possibly have that cold drink of water she’d wanted earlier?

“When? Oh, darling,” Jones whispered darkly before finally laying a delicious kiss against her throat. “Last time you came home as pissed as you are now o’ course.”

“Oh. Well, it suits you.” Claire wanted to beg for the kissing to continue but Jones pulled her down instead, arranging her body on the couch until she was comfortable, though it was hard to be really relaxed when those strong, dextrous hands were touching her - removing her shoes, unfastening her bra and pulling it out from under her t-shirt like he wore one every day, wiping the mascara from her face with a bit of tissue. She tried to get lost in the sensation, to close her eyes and just enjoy it, but it was impossible to do, what with the way Jones’ breath kept hitching every few seconds. Opening her eyes a peak, Claire could see her brother’s arm moving beneath Jones’ skirt and she could imagine what his hands might be doing, squeezing and exploring the part of Jones that was hidden from her, hidden by her own skirt. She closed her eyes, and then found that opening them again wasn’t really an option. “Can I have a water?”

There was a rustling and a dark sigh that she recognised as Dan’s before the gruff, “I’ll get it,” but Claire didn’t have the energy left to be embarrassed at how pathetic he probably thought she was. Lying down was good. She should lie down all the time and never go out to stupid Trashbat parties ever again. Who needed stupid boys who thought they were men, in their stupid jeans and unwashed pants and unwashed hair and unwashed hands. 

“Ah, Claire-a-belle,” Jones sighed, brushing a strand of sweat stiffen hair away from her face with the sort of tenderness that Claire only remembered from long ago sleep-overs with her nan. It made her want to cry just a little bit, but the tightness in her groin was still there too, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it. “Poor little sister Ashcroft. Which one of those wankers trashed your confidence tonight? Tell me ‘is name, I’ll fuck ‘im right up.”

Claire pushed out her bottom lip, wriggling her hips uselessly on the couch. “I bet you’d be good at it too,” she mumbled, watching his brow crease in the dim light.

“At wha?” He was so beautifully dim, looking down at her like that, and so infuriating with his hands sliding up and down over her exposed thighs, his adam’s apple bobbing like it wanted to be bitten.

“At fucking. Are you good at fucking?” She was vaguely aware that if she were sober she’d be embarrassed to be talking like this, particularly with Jones. It was one thing to talk about sex as a way to intimidate immature and brain dead boys but Jones just took such talk in his stride, grinning in that sticky sweet way he had, his smile crooked like his nose. He didn’t flinch at words like fucking, he just shrugged and kissed her again, his lips and tongue moving in time to the glorious music. “You seem like you’d be good at it,” she slurred when he moved back, watching his muscles in his arms as he shifted his weight. “Are you good at fucking? Jonesy?”

Jones’ grin grew giddy, his head turning to the side, eyes drawn to some movement in the kitchen as he considered his response. “Well,” he drawled eventually, “your brother never complains.”

Claire snorted. She’d not considered that Dan might like fucking men for years, not since she was sixteen, back when Dan had been twenty-one and waifish - a pale and romantic poet with expressive hands and a ‘roommate’ who was clearly infatuated with him. Dan hadn’t denied her question about his sexuality, he’d just glared her down until she’d slunk away in shame, determined never to talk sex with her brother ever again. Now her brain refused to think of anything but whether her brother was a top or a bottom, whether he held Jones down or let Jones call the shots. Their mum had always said that curiosity would be Claire’s undoing, but Claire bet she’d never imagined that it would involve getting so drunk she thought seriously about Dan and Jones’ sex life, and wasn’t freaked out by it.

“D’you ever fuck girls?” she asked suddenly, aware that she’d taken hold of Jones’ skirt and was rubbing the fabric between her fingers. It felt so good, smooth like the skin of Jones’ chest.

“Yeah,” Jones said simply. “I have sex with girls too. When I fancy it. Why?”

In the air around them the music swelled like a sunrise, sliding a noose around Claire’s throat until she couldn’t breathe. It was so beautiful, so full of emotion and joy and strangeness. 

“Would you ever have sex with me?”

She scrunched her eyes tight, fisting the fabric of Jones’ skirt between her fingers as she braced herself for mockery, rejection, laughter. Jones loved to laugh, he did it all the time, with his entire body, like he did everything, but Claire couldn’t bear for him to laugh at her right then. Instead she felt lips against hers, nipping at her bottom lip, as Jones lowered his hips down to hers and began to grind, making her want more than she had words for.

“In a heartbeat, Claire-a-belle,” Jones whispered huskily as he kissed along her jawline to her ear. “You’re so fucking hot. I’d do you any way you want. But only when you’re a little more sober, yeah? I have a sort of rule about goin’ all the way when it’s someone new.”

Claire groaned loud as Jones bit her neck gently, grazing with his teeth before sucking a hickey in to the sensitive flesh. She ran her hands up his chest as he sucked at her neck, her hips moving desperately, seeking out Jones’ sharp hip bones and hard pelvis, but in a heartbeat it was no longer there. Still, she could feel the memory of it, knew what it felt like, knew what it should feel like, what it could feel like. God, she wanted it. 

“So when I’m sober,” she gasped, turning her head to try and capture his lips with her own, “we can have sex?”

Jones chuckled like the deep, rich, timbre of the cellos and double basses in the recording that seemed to have worked its way under her hot skin. It made her itch. She was ready to burst, so full of need and fizzing, boiling arousal and the music of Jones’ voice pushed her almost over the edge.

“If you still want to,” he told her, peppering kisses to her tingling lips. “If you remember asking. Usually you don’t. And so far you’ve been pretty against any sort of sexy stuff when you’re sober, yeah? Ya don’t even remember asking or wanting it. Memory’s a funny thing like that, ya know? But maybe one day, yeah?”

“Maybe,” Claire frowned. She couldn’t imagine turning Jones down, not when she was ready to burst, not when he looked that hot in one of her old skirts. Maybe she’d never seen him in a skirt before, she mused. Jones in nothing but a skirt was too hot to deny. “Maybe. Maybe I should have sex with girls.”

“It is pretty fucking amazing,” Jones replied with a nod and a grin, leaning away and increasing her frustration and need. She wanted him closer, dammit, not further away. “Sex with girls is a genius thing,” he whispered teasingly, settling down to rest his head between her breasts. “Especially with the right soundtrack.”

“Yeah,” Claire sighed, undulating her hips and moving her thighs more quickly against the air, wishing she was wearing more than just a flimsy skirt and t-shirt so Jones couldn’t see so obviously what her body was doing of its own accord. She wished she was wearing less. Even the friction of Jones’s stubbled jaw against her nipple was getting her antsy, but she could hardly ask him to help her out, not when she’d walked in on him and her brother a few minutes before. She wasn’t exactly sure what they’d been doing but Dan was dressed only in boxers and Jones was only in a skirt and there had been kissing and low lights and a nest of blankets and cushions on the floor. And the most glorious music, which made Claire wish there was someone around to worship her body the way the music seemed to require. “I like this record,” she told him, trying to keep her eyes open and her hips still and failing at both. “It’s an orchestra. Classical. Nice. How d’you know any classical music anyway. You’re a Jones. You’re a DJ.”

“That I am,” Jones chuckled but Claire didn’t feel capable of any sort of embarrassment anymore. Jones was running his hands up and down her thighs, his thumbs coming up to swirl across the damp crotch of her pants at every pass. He chuckled again, moving his face down her body with delicate kisses until his nose had joined his thumbs. He hummed. “Two-bit DJ. That’s me. But I know this stuff too.”

Claire couldn’t help but whine when Jones went back to moving his fingers without even trying to remove her nickers. She was so wet, so close.

“How?”

Jones stopped the movement of his fingers as he looked up and Claire opened her eyes as far as she could manage, which wasn’t far, just enough to make out Jones’ clueless stare. “How what?”

“How do you know anything about music? This music?”

“Oh, well,” Jones grinned cheerfully. “That’s easy.” But instead of actually answering he moved back up the couch to kiss her again, sliding his tongue in to her mouth just as he finally slid his fingers past the elastic of her pants. Claire bucked against him, couldn’t help but give in to the boiling rush as callused fingertips finally got to work. She tried to let out a moan but Jones kissed her through it, his strong, quick tongue pushed against her own, his fingers moving faster, flicking and rubbing circles around and ‘round her clit until his fingers were slick and Claire couldn’t hold back any longer. It’d been so long since she’d orgasmed with anything other than her own fingers, with occasional help from the shower head, and it was so much better than she’d worried it might be, so much better than it could have been with some dimple-dicked Shoreditch wannabe like Barley. She bunched her fingers in to the soft fabric of Jones’ skirt, arching up against his marble skin, pushing her cunt against his fingers, riding them as black sparks began to burst in the pink light behind her eyes. The music flowed in to fill the blank spaces in her mind, filling her up until the golden syrupy pleasure of her orgasm burst out, pulsing on and on, until the music coming through the speakers began to fade and she slumped back against the cushions of the creaking sofa.

“How...” she panted, her throat burning and head spinning hazily but the curiosity still fizzing in the back of her brain, and coming on stronger as the tide of her orgasm began to recede. “How... how do you know about classical music?”

Jones gave a gentle laugh, softer than his usual cackle, and he turned away, biting his lip self-consciously as he carefully removed his hand from her knickers and wiped his fingers against her thigh. “Ah, yeah, well, see... that’d be ‘cos... ‘cos this recording’s of me, ain’t it? My second year.” He ducked away, straightening Claire’s skirt, avoiding eye contact, sliding down to sit on the floor. Claire tried to focus on what he was trying to say, beyond all the fidgeting, but her body had given up, surrendering to the alcohol and post-sex sleepiness that was tugging at her, forcing her eyes shut, even though Jones’ revelation was worth staying awake for and a twist she hadn’t seen coming. “I played all sorts of shit back then,” Jones explained softly. ”Oboe, cello, piano. That’s me there, blowing me woodwind.”

Claire scrunched her eyes tight, trying to force them open, but gave up after a second and shifted on to her side to get comfortable as the music flowed on and on, eventually coming to an end with a truly delicate beauty. When a new piece of music began to drift out of the speakers and through the dark and comfortable space a few moments later, she shivered. It was so sadly beautiful it made her feel unsettled.

“You were good,” she told him, something she’d never had cause to say about Jones’ music before, and which was an overwhelming understatement. “Why’d you stop?”

She heard Jones sigh, felt his breath against her thigh as he made himself comfortable. “Too much... perfection. I like things a bit messy, yeah? Didn’t fancy all the posh twats and snobbery neither. That, and, ya know, I got stubby fingers,” he chuckled. “I was never gonna really make it with lion paws like these. I’m better off making noise in me own home.”

“That’s sad.”

“That’s life, babe.”

Claire scrunched her eyes again and let the sound of the oboe wash over her. She could barely believe that this sound had been made by Jones, or why he would really give up a life of making such beautiful music for the one he had now, making noise for no one but Dan and living off nothing but pot noodle and pot. It made her want to cry, but just as she thought the tears would come Jones’ lips were back on hers, pressing delicate kisses first to her mouth and then to her cheeks and eyelids. She opened her mouth hopefully but Jones withdrew and a moment later his hand was cradling her head and a cold glass was being pressed to her lips instead.

“Time to go to sleep, Claire-a-belle, alright? You’ll feel better in the morning, trust me.”

Claire drank, gulping down the cold water as the ice cubes clinked against the glass, mixing with the sound of gentle woodwind instruments, wondering where it had come from, and how Jones had known that she loved her water so cold it made her teeth ache. She’d think about it when she woke up, she figured, feeling her body beginning to slip away in to sleep. She needed to make the most of the happy, warm buzz flowing through her veins, and the presence of music that she could actually sleep to. 

“Why’d you tell her that?” Dan’s voice rumbled, dark and warm and slow. “Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”

Jones wriggled down on to the floor, dragging his nest of blankets and pillows in to the centre of the floor, away from the sofa where Claire was sleeping, looking up in to Dan’s creased face with a rare sadness in his eyes. He shrugged. “Tell ‘er what, Dan? That I had a fucking breakdown? That I lost my shit, and lost my scholarship? Chucked it all in and ended up here?” he scoffed and arched his spine like a tired cat. “Knowing my luck that’d be the one thing she would remember, and I ain’t having that. I ain’t having people know that shit. I ain’t that person no more. Now, you gonna fuck me or what?”

Dan’s knees clicked as he lowered himself down, and he let out a grunt as he came to rest over the lithe man beneath him. The soft and unnerving music swelled, accompanied by the wet, soft sounds of lovers’ kisses, and the gentle slide of fabric against skin. 

“God, you look so fucking hot in this skirt,” Dan shuddered, pushing the yellow and green fabric up and around Jones’ waist, making him squirm and bite his lip in anticipation. “So fucking hot, Jones. Hot when you’re dressed like this, when you’re not dressed at all. Hot when you’re making music - whatever kind of music you want to make - ten thousand pound cello or ten p. kazoo.” Jones’ laughter, a cackle filled with light and a unique music all it’s own, eventually gave way to a moan of desire as Dan’s hands began to stroke and play his body like an instrument. “No wonder everyone in this city wants to fuck you,” Dan growled, working his way down. “Even my fucking sister. God, you gorgeous little slut.” 

Jones sighed as Dan lowered his mouth down, the music of his past filling his senses. He’d put the recording on to please Dan - he’d do just about anything to please Dan - and while it was technically great music it didn’t feel like a real part of him anymore. He preferred the music of the world around him now - mundane sounds, jarring sounds, everyday music - rather than the sounds of expensive instruments and his own mental anguish and anxiety. And right then he wanted the music of sex, the sound of fucking, and Dan, as always, obliged.


End file.
